Tears of the slayer upon the brow of the slain shall herald the unsealing of the Cup of Ages. Sundered light and shadow will be cast upon mortal soil, wielded in the hand of innocence. And the whispered convergence of power will reign unleashed upon all lands of Norrath by privilege of its keeper.

Widdlethorp had quoted the prophecy for his two guests, word for word. Dreketh found it suspiciously odd how the two thousand year old gnome could recollect the words of the goddess so precisely, yet scratch his head over Zeranon’s surname. Shrugging, the dark elf chalked it up to the selective memory of a senile old has-been.

Laera didn’t care for old men or their half-baked memories. Now all had become clear—not only in regards to the Pact itself, but also the conversation that had taken place between Yeolarn Bronzeleaf and Headmistress Netheel back in Felwithe. The incident in Tunare’s temple had shaken the girl terribly at the time, and things had never been the same since that day. The young druid slowly came to realize how mistaken she was in believing that she had been chosen by the Mother Herself to fulfill this mission. Instead, it turned out to be a matter of her being in the right place at the right time—a worshipper of Tunare gullible enough to become a lamb to the slaughter. No, the more time passed it became clear that she was more a disciple of convenience than devotion.

The wood elf wanted to march straight to Felwithe and give Yeolarn Bronzeleaf a piece of her mind. Where once she reacted with timidity, Laera became indignant. How dare he offhandedly cast her to the wolves like this? How dare he treat her like some naïve child, when in fact she was his one hope for the future? She might be nothing more than an instrument of his designs, like a sword he wielded to fulfill his duty, but every swordsman worth his salt knows you treat your valuable weapons with respect and care.

What was it about Laera that made her superiors believe she would befriend the Teir’Dal, anyway? Did they see flaws in her character they intended to exploit? The thought rubbed Laera the wrong way, and she couldn’t dismiss it. The growing relationship she had with Dreketh was plain to see every time she looked at the dark elf—pointing to the conclusion that there could, indeed, be something wrong with her.

But no, she told herself repeatedly. Dreketh was no longer some random Teir’Dal to the druid. Dreketh was Dreketh. With all her faults, Laera had come to recognize numerous good points to be found in her partner, blue skin or no. She couldn’t deny that the shadow knight had taught her more than her share of streetwise habits, not to mention several advantages of showing muscle and brevity in the right situations. She learned how strength of the body could prove every bit as valuable as strength of the spirit, and she doubted very much that lesson would ever be taught so well in Tunare’s school for druidic studies.

Was there something wrong with her? Seeing what she had already gained from journeying with Dreketh, Laera decided the question was moot. So what if her superiors saw shortcomings? The truth was she felt more confident about herself and her abilities since joining up with the shadow knight. Those were good things, and she had Dreketh to thank for it—not her presumptuous, manipulative superiors.

Dreketh’s thoughts were not dissimilar. The fool priest Kella N’Threk had been her puppet master all along. She admitted that never once had he given a contrary impression to that, but to see it like this galled her. The old man was not as mad as he would have others believe. He deceived and used her, and when she had deviated from the set course, she was beaten back into submission in true Teir’Dal fashion. It made the dark elf wince to realize how her torture and exile meant nothing more than a simple tactic in some farcical game of chess between two gods thirsting for dominance.

The wood elf presented as much a problem. Memories of the mob she was forced to flee from in Nektulos returned to her with cries of “elf lover!” ringing through her ears. Too closely it resembled an awful prelude to what Widdlethorp had just revealed about the Pact and the bond that must exist between her and Laera for it to be fulfilled. Only by the precepts of love would the Chalice be unsealed.

Dreketh had to admit, the druid’s manner after discovering her in the Tunnel of Ro had caught the cynical shadow knight by surprise. Laera nurtured her back to health with a firm, but giving hand. Had it been anyone else, Dreketh would have said it was due to the Pact, but she knew the wood elf well enough to tell it was more than that. Laera truly cared that Dreketh was in pain. She cared whether she, a Teir’Dal, lived or died. The idea was completely outlandish and, frankly, amazing to the dark elf. When she asked herself if she would have responded in kind, she actually felt ashamed. Not only that, but the hard work the wood elf underwent to keep a roof over their heads for those long weeks of recuperation spoke volumes as well. Often, Laera would hunt all hours of the day, from dawn to dusk, only to drag herself inside the house to attend Dreketh. Not a single word of complaint escaped the druid’s lips the entire time, and not once did she allow herself to fall asleep before her patient.

To this day, the aggrieved shadow knight would often wake from a particularly horrific nightmare in search of the wood elf. Inevitably, she would find Laera sleeping nearby, putting the dark elf’s sleep-dimmed fears to rest. Sometimes her cries would disturb the druid’s sleep, but instead of rebuke, Laera would inevitably crawl out of bed to hold her hand, assuring her that she wasn’t going anywhere. During such moments, the tension that existed between them vanished without a trace as Laera whispered words of comfort to the distressed dark elf.

“Elf lover! Elf lover! Elf lover!” The cries of her people pounded inside the shadow knight’s head. On some level, Dreketh couldn’t deny that she was becoming attached to the wood elf. If nothing else, she owed Laera a great deal. But what Dreketh did in the Pact, she did for her god and her people. Her faith remained stalwart—if only she could make her people see the truth of it. She was still “of the blood,” as the saying went.

One thing was clear—Kella N’Threk was undoubtedly playing the Denizens of the Dead for fools as well. If only it were possible to reach her father, Xon Quexill, and tell him of the priest’s doings. Perhaps something could be done to set things right. She could return home again, her name vindicated. She could possibly even return to her studies of necromancy once the priest’s underhandedness was exposed.

But how? Nezzka Tolax, her shadow knight guild master, was firmly ensconced in Neriak with his own matters to attend to, and her father was likely still on sabbatical at points unknown. Clearly, making contact with any Teir’Dal in authority was an impossible notion for a labeled traitor.

Or was it?

“We have to go to Clan Crushbone,” Dreketh said with finality as she walked.

Laera’s stride remained uninterrupted at the dark elf’s sudden remark. Having grown accustomed to Dreketh’s abruptness, she merely looked up from her own musings to give her companion a doubtful look.

“What are you talking about?”

“I have to know what my people are doing,” Dreketh explained, ticking off her fingers as she continued. “I have to know if an army is massing to meet the one here on Faydwer. I have to know what is happening with my sect. I have to know what Kella N’Threk is planning so I can know what to expect next. With my exile, I can only do that at Crushbone.”

The shadow knight looked to her companion, gauging her reaction. Laera merely stared at the dark elf with a neutral expression as the two continued their journey out of Steamfont.

“Crushbone,” the druid said. Seeing Dreketh nod, she sought further confirmation. “Clan Crushbone in Greater Faydark.” The dark elf nodded again. “Why in Tunare’s name would you want to go there? It’s nothing but orcs. How would you find all these things out?”

“Because…” Dreketh replied hesitantly. Looking around briefly, the dark elf lowered her voice. “Because there is a small Teir’Dal presence there. A resident ambassador named D’Vinn. He’s remote enough that I don’t think he’ll have heard about the exile of a trainee shadow knight, but he would definitely know of a massing army if one exists.”

The wood elf’s demeanor turned dark at hearing this news. For years, Kelethin had struggled against the Crushbone horde, constantly at odds with the orcs living in Greater Faydark. A number of times, the malevolent creatures had attempted to lay siege to the tree city. Were it not for the steadfast alliance Kelethin held with the nearby high elves of Felwithe, the city would certainly have fallen to orc rule decades ago. The constant struggle against orcish hit-and-run tactics had taken its toll on the wood elf people, costing them much in the way of resources and liberties in their own lands. Many had given their lives in the fight to keep the orcs at arm’s length. And now, hearing that the Teir’Dal had a hand in it all, while not surprising, was certainly disconcerting to say the least.

Rumors had, of course, been spoken about a few sporadic sightings of dark elves spotted near Crushbone during nighttime hours. Upon investigation, however, nothing substantial could ever be found to support such claims. Either the dastardly dark elves had eluded them in the misty darkness, or the sightings were ramblings of overtired imaginations.

Laera now knew it was the former.

“Your people are trying to form an alliance with the Crushbone orcs.” It was a statement, not a question.

“The Teir’Dal seek allies where we can.” Dreketh tilted her head with a small shrug. “Even if it means climbing into bed with the more primitive factions of Norrath.”

Laera bit her lip, containing her outrage. Instead of barking accusations, she allowed herself to stare at her companion accusingly. Dreketh caught sight of the wood elf’s glare, and drew herself up.

“The Teir’Dal are few, and we have all of Norrath against us,” she said in defense of her race.

“I can’t imagine why that is,” Laera interjected caustically.

“You would do the same,” Dreketh pointed out. “Anyone would, under the circumstances. Crushbone would provide us with prime strategic value as a strangle point on two prime enemies on Faydwer.”

“These are my people you’re talking about,” the wood elf growled.

“I won’t apologize for the political maneuverings of my race,” Dreketh answered back. “All I care about is the here and now, and right now it’s the only way to find out what Kella N’Threk is up to. We have some heavy choices to make, and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather make an informed decision.”

“I know,” Laera muttered, letting the matter drop for now. “But you’re forgetting something. The orcs hate wood elves almost as much as you do. How am I supposed to get inside?”

“That’s easy,” Dreketh replied. “Same as Ak’Anon. I run in, talk to the ambassador, I leave a message to be sent by courier to my master at Neriak, and I come back out.”

“It won’t work,” the wood elf said flatly. “The camp outside Crushbone is little more than a war zone, day or night. Even if I could get close enough to find a hiding place, the orcs would be sure to find me in the time it takes you to do all that. If I stayed a safe distance away, it would mean staying separated even longer, and you’d be in serious danger of being spotted.

“What about that camouflage thing you do?” the dark elf suggested. “It makes you practically invisible. You could stick with me and the orcs would never know you were there.”

“The spell is too unstable,” Laera replied. “It works well enough in the wilderness where there are plenty of places to hide if it fails, but not surrounded by a bunch of slavering orcs, and not for extended periods.”

“Then I guess you’ve elected to become my personal slave again,” Dreketh said with an evil grin.

Laera returned the dark elf’s grin with a belittling grin of her own.

“A wood elf slave and her dark elf master roaming around Greater Faydark? I don’t think so.”

Dreketh bristled at the druid’s tone, but had to admit she knew little of the situation in this place. Seeing as how the forest was the wood elf’s homeland, she made her concession with a bothered sigh.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“You’re crazy,” Dreketh declared as she applied the pollen to her companion’s face.

“We’re living in crazy times,” Laera replied, doing her best to keep her face still as marble. “I told you before, if you can think of a better plan, I’m listening.”

The dark elf shook her head, her mouth closed as she again dipped her dagger blade into the bowl resting in the grass beside her. Normally, the blue pollen would be applied with a special instrument that makeup artists used to adorn the actors who portrayed dark elves on stage. The substance was sticky and clumpy, making application nearly impossible to do by hand or with a brush. Having no such instrument handy, it was decided that Dreketh should use her dagger instead.

Laera did her best to maintain composure in the face of Dreketh waving the razor sharp weapon in front of her. The shadow knight had already proven she kept a skilled and steady hand with the blade, so the nervous wood elf really had little to worry about. Or so Laera told herself as she felt the dagger’s edge press against the tender skin of her face. The weapon’s point slithered along her eyes, applying the blue substance to her lower eyelid. One false move on the dark elf’s part, and the consequences would have been dire for the druid.

“Talk about your implicit trust, huh?” Laera said with a nervous grin while Dreketh dipped the blade another time.

“Yes, well,” the dark elf’s piercing eyes examined her work critically as she raised the dagger again. “The question here isn’t trusting my intentions so much as it is my judgment, isn’t it? The Pact-”

“I have to blink!” Laera said urgently. Dreketh immediately withdrew the dagger, allowing the wood elf to close her eyes. “Some got in my eye again. I don’t know how they put up with this in the theater. It burns like lemon juice on a cut.”

Dreketh raised a self-deprecating eyebrow.

“They probably have people putting it on them who know what they’re doing.”

The dark elf watched as Laera blinked several times, testing to see if the pain would cease. With amazement, she saw how the tears escaping the druid’s eyelids rolled over the pollen in beads, rather than smudging the work she had already done.

“Is this waterproof?” she asked, dabbing at the droplets with a small cloth from her pack.

“Well, to a degree,” the wood elf replied. Finding the burning gone, she learned forward for Dreketh to resume. “Once it dries, you can even touch it a little without it coming off. But if it starts raining or someone decides to manhandle me, I’m in trouble.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Dreketh muttered, continuing her work. “The orcs have no love for my kind, but they tend to leave us alone when we’re about. You’re just going to have to keep your hands hidden, or we’re both dead.”

Already, the dark elf had applied the pollen to Laera’s neck, shoulders, chest and upper arms—any place where skin was left exposed by her clothing. It quickly became apparent, however, that the small joints of the wood elf’s palm and fingers were going to be a problem. As a solution, Dreketh pulled out a pair of extra gloves she carried with her for times when metal gauntlets proved too cumbersome to be practical.

Laera’s striking auburn hair was an even bigger issue. It was commonly known that all dark elves had naturally white hair—without exception. It was a defining attribute of the race, and there was simply no believable means of explaining a dark-haired Teir’Dal. The notion of finding a dark elf-crafted helm or hat anywhere on Faydwer was nearly as absurd.

“What do the actors use on stage?” Dreketh asked as she put the final touches of pollen on the wood elf.

“Wigs specially made from high elf hair by artisans. Hair that white is rare and expensive, though, so the wigs are highly valued,” Laera replied. Keeping her face motionless, she glanced at the dark elf’s hair. “It’s a very close likeness, though. I think we could pull it off, but they’re kept stashed away in the Songweavers’ Guild. I couldn’t just walk up to them and ask to borrow one.

“Too bad you weren’t born a rogue,” Dreketh commented, sitting back. “There. Minus the hair, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you for a wood elf.”

“I look good?” Laera asked hopefully.

Dreketh shifted her head to see the druid from profile.

“Eh, not the most attractive inkie in history, but it’ll hold up to the casual observer.”

“I beg your pardon?” Laera asked mockingly. “Excuse me, but did my ears deceive me or did you just use the word ‘inkie?’”

The dark elf looked away, busying herself with cleaning her dagger.

“It was at the expense of a woodie, so it’s all right,” she said shortly, a half-smile escaping her control.

“Is that so?” Laera placed her hands to her hips, drawing herself up. “Well, I’m going to prove to you that I will make a very believable inkie, thank you very much.”

Dreketh merely looked up at the druid’s stately disposition, her smile unwavering.

“Don’t believe me?” the blue-skinned wood elf asked.

“Actually,” Dreketh said with a sigh, tossing aside the cloth she used to clean her weapon. “I think you’ll make a convincing dark elf.”

“Really?” Laera asked, an edge of excitement in her voice.

Dreketh nodded.

“As long as you lay off the whole giggling and twirling around bit, you’ll be fine.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, dark sister.” Crossing her arms and placing her palms against her chest, the would-be dark elf bowed her head, imitating the gesture Dreketh had taught her weeks ago in Erud’s Crossing.

Dreketh’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at seeing the solemn ritual of the Vellin Sar being performed in such a trivial manner. Such a thing was unheard of for the gravely serious oath, and was never demeaned by any such display in Teir’Dal society.

The shadow knight was about to rebuke her companion for such disrespect when something made her stop. Despite the appearance of her skin, Laera was still a wood elf. No matter what meeting of the minds she might have gained from traveling with a dark elf, she would probably never come to fully appreciate most Teir’Dal customs. Knowing the druid as she did, she knew Laera would be contrite and sincerely apologetic for this infraction. Laera would never intentionally show such a level of disrespect for something Dreketh held dear.

What the hell, Dreketh thought with a shrug. Like the wood elf said, they were living in crazy times. It seemed fitting, somehow. Bowing her head, Dreketh assumed the same position, palms placed against her own chest.

“Very good, young initiate,” she said, joining the charade. “Very good, indeed.”

Hair was still a problem. Even wearing a hooded cloak, Laera’s decidedly un-white hair had a way of peeking out from its hiding place, announcing to the world how her presumed heritage was a ruse. Ideas tossed back and forth by the two young women until it came down to one final option.

“You’re crazy,” Dreketh commented for the seventh time that day as the winking lights of Kelethin started to appear high amid the treetops. Dusk had arrived, causing the mists all through Greater Faydark to dim ominously around them.

“You’ve made your opinion clear, Dreketh,” Laera replied, pulling off her gloves. “Trust me, this is better. The Songweavers’ guild house is just a short walk from the lift. I’ll be in and out before you know I’m gone.”

“The whole point of this disguise is to keep us from separating,” the dark elf said, folding her arms.

“Well, if you’d let me cast the camouflage spell on you, we wouldn’t have to separate,” the druid pointed out.

Dreketh blinked sullenly, looking up into the wood elf city. The offer was tempting, considering the circumstances, but the shadow knight remained unyielding on the issue. The thought of a light dweller’s power touching her, no matter how benevolent, still made her skin crawl.

“Fine. You’ll be safe here,” Laera said quickly. Turning, she pointed off into the trees. “The lift is just past that grove. If anything goes wrong—which it won’t—I’ll be coming out of there.”

“If anything goes wrong, I’ll be kissing a certain part of my anatomy goodbye. You really think this will work?” Dreketh asked skeptically.

“Since the League of Antonican Bards started doing those mail runs, the Songweavers’ Guild has been nothing but chaos with letters coming and going at all hours,” the wood elf said, handing the soft leather gloves to her partner. “If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to sneak past everyone into the prop closet. One way or another, I’ll see you soon—wig in hand. I promise.”

Laera started walking in the direction she indicated when her companion’s voice halted her.

“Hey,” Dreketh said, clearing her throat. “Be-…quick about it. All right? I don’t like it out here.”

The wood elf’s thin blue lips twisted in a grin.

“Trust me,” she mouthed as she turned again to rush off into the mist.

Ever since Steamfont, Dreketh hadn’t seemed herself. Though not exactly the talkative type to begin with, the dark elf was more reclusive than normal. Laera couldn’t imagine why, unless it had something to do with seeing a wood elf masquerading in Teir’Dal skin. Though not impossible, Laera had a nagging feeling that wasn’t it.

From the gathering mists of night emerged an enormous mechanical lift—the very lift Laera had left as she departed her home months ago. Looking up, she silently reveled at the sight of the wooden planks and buildings cradled high in the trees’ mighty limbs. A rush of emotion hit her, her throat constricting as the sights, sounds and even smells of her home washed over her. Everything was just as she remembered it.

“Halt there!” cried a metallic voice. Expecting this, Laera froze in place as the guard on duty approached, sword ready. Seeing the druid’s blue skin and contradictory hair, the steel-clad soldier appeared confused. “What… manner of creature are you?”

Laera cast the guard a winning smile with a self-conscious laugh. Taking a deep breath, she launched into the spiel she’d practiced en route.

“I know how this must look. It’s so embarrassing,” she said, covering her face. “You see, I’m cast in the Ak’Anon production of ‘Darkness Spurned’ as Lady Morgalla D’Thren. We arrived at Ak’Anon and got all ready to go on stage for the dress rehearsal when Wardrobe suddenly discovered they were short dark elf wigs by one. So naturally, guess who they sent running back here to get hers!” Laera held out her hands, shrugging. “I know, I was outraged, too! I mean, Mistress Nye is such a lesser role! Why not send her out to fetch her wig instead of me? Well, the director is just downright anal when it comes to having his leading lady picture-perfect. It so turns out that there was one particular wig he had made just for this role—he paid for it out of his own pocket, can you believe that? Anyway, he was going to throw one of his legendary fits if it wasn’t worn by Lady Morgalla, so I offered to make a quick trip back to retrieve it, since the stage crew had their hands full trying to set up a fifty-foot-wide stage in a twenty-foot-deep alcove with at least a dozen gnome engineers running around, telling them how to get it to fit.” Her lungs spent, Laera took in a long, deep breath. “So, it’s kind of a crisis, as you can see. I really need to get to the Songweavers’ and grab that wig before too many people see me like this…”

With a pleading expression, Laera held out her arms and hands, showing where the pollen ended and her true skin color began.

The guard’s eyes blinked from behind the enclosed helm he wore, trying to assimilate the wood elf’s frantic explanation.

“Uh… okay, fine. Go on ahead. Just be careful up there—we don’t want anyone mistaking you for the real thing. With war coming, things are tense enough around here.”

Bobbing her head gratefully, Laera spoke a quick word of thanks and ran hastily up the ramp to stand on the lift. With the pull of a lever, the mechanism activated, hoisting her steadily higher into the trees. Seeing the guards fall out of sight, the wood elf habitually raised a hand to wipe her forehead when she remembered the pollen. Wincing, she lowered her arm and waited impatiently for the lift to deliver her to her destination above.

Any elation she might have felt at returning to the city after so long was lost in a mass of excitement and urgency. She’d made it over the first hurdle. Now the challenging part was about to present itself as she tried to sneak, talk or charm her way through the Songweavers’ guild house.

Her arrival at the top of the lift was uneventful. Though several passersby cast confused looks at her unusual appearance, she chose to ignore them. Treading carefully, she crossed a creaking wooden bridge to arrive at the guild house on a neighboring platform.

As she expected, things were calming down as night closed in, while all was alight inside the Songweavers’ Guild. The wooden doors sat propped open to the evening air as a tumultuous stream of voices wafted its way from the building. Noise from a myriad of musical instruments stepped on each others’ toes, apparently warming up for one of the many recitals the bards held nightly. The chaotic sound brought vivid memories back to the druid’s mind, remembering her days of childhood when she would visit such performances with Rigel.

Peeking inside the doorway, Laera found a number of young students wailing away on their various instruments, fitting in a few stolen moments of practice before the big show began. The druid grinned to herself, remembering what it was like to be a child in school, learning the secrets of her trade for the first time. The smile quickly vanished, however, as she reflected on how simple the lives of these young musicians must be—how simple her life might have been had she not chosen to pursue the path of a druid.

“Esscuse me,” a glib voice spoke from behind, making her jump. “Can I hep you?”

Laera turned around to find a lithe half-elf male standing behind her. At least, he appeared male. Her mind raced furiously to think of what to say when the dainty young man sporting a meticulous goatee caught sight of the druid’s colored skin. Seeing his eyes grow large, Laera made a rattled attempt to explain her appearance when he interrupted her.

“My dear girl, what in Tunare’s green world are you doing here looking like that?” he asked, his eyes riveted to her skin.

“Well…well, I-” she began.

“Nunno!” the half-elf held up a silencing hand. “Don’ tell me. It was Gershy, wunnit? I keep telling that boy to focus on the faerie bosoms and leave the inkies to me, but he never listens! How long did he spen’ on this botch job, hmm? Come on and tell Divaran, sweetie.”

“I-I was just… I don’t-”

“Oh, sweet thing,” he continued, placing a gentle hand to her shoulder. “You’ve been traumatized, I can see that already. Don’ worry, dear. Divaran’s here to make it right for you. Nobody would ever ask you to perform unner these conditions-SILENCE!” the half-elf screeched, interrupting himself. He waved a flippant hand toward the musicians inside. “How’dyu esspect an artiste to hear hisself think with all that racket, huh? Save it for the program, babies! Save it!”

The children looked at each other confusedly, but Divaran’s words had the desired effect—they stopped playing. Grasping Laera’s limp hand in his own, the dainty half-elf took her inside the guild house, leading her through the main chamber. Once inside, nobody seemed to think her appearance was the least bit odd, save Divaran himself.

“You would not believe the things I put up with to bring this thing together,” he said conversationally, heading through a backroom door. Inside were numerous people busy at work, all apparently getting ready for a show. “The score changed twice today already, the choreographer has the grace of a one-legged dwarf, and now I have Gershy’s ailing hand to cope with. But like everything else aroun’ this place, it’s all about the essperience, innit?”

Divaran plopped Laera down onto a tall wooden stool resting before a table laden with an assortment of cosmetics. Small jars and dishes filled with various colors sat haphazardly amidst a collection of brushes and other exotic tools. All was confusion throughout the room as unnamed voices called out to each other, while one distant voice rose above them all announcing that there was exactly one hour left before showtime.

The confused druid looked around to find she was already under Divaran’s close scrutiny.

“Hmm,” he said with a critical eye. “The shoulders aren’ bad. An’ the arms, too. Gershy’s not as bad as I thought. But the face is simply atrocious! A blind ogre with a paint roller could do better. Now hold still for me, sweetie.”

Quick as lightning, the self-stylized artiste grabbed a toning brush and set to work, lining the druid’s face with shades of blue and gray that, according to the praise he gave himself, far better suited the shape of her face. Using a sponge-like implement, he dabbed and streaked the pollen across her cheeks as a master painter would create a prize work of art. Accustomed to Dreketh’s slow, fastidious hand, Laera was unnerved at the speed and seeming lack of care with which Divaran went about his work. Yet she felt his confidence with every twist and stroke he made with his hands.

“Sweet thing,” he said casually as he applied the black eyeliner with a light touch. “When I am done with you, Gershy will see essactly the difference between true art and jus’ painting someone pretty colors! Hol’ still one minute an’ let this dry. I’ll be righ’ back.”

Laera wondered about Dreketh standing all alone at the forest floor. She left her companion in a relatively deserted area, but she also hadn’t intended on staying this long. She didn’t know exactly how much time had passed, but she certainly expected to have been long gone by now. Groaning, the druid imagined the earful she was about to receive when she returned.

A heavy weight pressed against her head. Obeying her knee-jerk impulse, she started to pull away.

“Nunno, sweet thing! Don’ move, I tol’ you!” Divaran said testily from behind.

A thick mass of white obscured Laera’s vision for a moment as the doting makeup artist placed a wig on her head. Realizing her prize had just been delivered to her on a silver platter, the druid held perfectly still, allowing Divaran to primp and tuck her hair beneath the wig with his usual adroit skill.

“There, less take a look atchu,” Divaran said, turning her around on the stool. “Hmm, I dunno. Whatchu think?” he asked, stepping aside so Laera could glimpse herself in the mirror.

Laera’s breath caught in her throat. What she saw was literally a Teir’Dal—white hair and all—staring back at her. Turning her head to the side, she could see how the talented half-elf applied highlights to her cheekbones and chin, lending the pollen’s natural blue color a sense of realism closely matching the contours of her face. Craning her head, she could see the same technique used on her neck muscles and collarbones, bringing them out. Even her eyes were expertly done, made up in such an exotic way she imagined dark elves would do on special occasions. If she met herself walking down a path, Laera thought, she would never have recognized herself.

“Amazing…” she whispered.

“Of course,” Divaran sniffed. “It’s whatchu get when you know where to look for the talen’.” Placing a hand on his chin, the artist raised an eyebrow. “Now, about your outfit…”

Laera looked down at her leather tunic.

“What?”

“What? Whatchu mean ‘what?’” he piped, waving his arms. “Thassa druid symbol for druids! There’s no inkie druids, don’ you know that? Who gave you this to wear, hmm? Hmm? Tell me.”

“Uh-”

“No! Nunno!” Divaran raised his perennial silencing hand. “I just haff to get something else to wear for you. I just wan’ to know why it is I who always ends up doing everybody else’s job ‘round here!” As the agitated half-elf spoke, his voice rose louder and louder until he was addressing everyone in the room. Accustomed to the eccentric tirades he often perpetrated, everybody within earshot muttered and nodded at this grave injustice as they went about their business.

“It’s mine,” Laera said timidly, tugging on the man’s sleeve.

“S’okay, s’okay,” Divaran replied, waving his hand. “Jus’ get rid of it, and I’ll be back with something fitting. Size five, right?”

“Well, yes, I-” Laera replied, but the half-elf—confident in his own judgment—had already bustled off into the crowd to fetch her costume.

Glancing around at the mayhem all about, Laera considered staying to see what sort of outfit Divaran dug up for her, thinking perhaps some Teir’Dal garb might come in useful. But seeing how her time was already short, and how her habit of not wearing anything beneath her tunic might prove uncomfortable with so many people around, the druid figured she had better quit while she was ahead. She had what she came for, and this could be her only chance to slip out unnoticed by her personal “artiste.”

Slipping down off the stool, the new-and-improved “dark elf” padded through the crowd and made her way quietly out of the guild house.

Laera considered using her magic to camouflage herself on the way to the lift. After all that had happened already, she seriously wished to avoid further confrontations with anyone—especially looking the way she did. On the other hand, casting the spell caused a lot of hubbub, and would definitely attract undue attention. How would it look if someone found a Teir’Dal inside the city using such a spell? Likely the area would quickly be flooded with spellcasters using their magical sight to hunt down the intruder, causing even more grief.

No, the evening had closed in, and the people traveling the bridges in the darkness were sparse. Laera decided just to keep a careful eye out for anyone who might see her. It was only a short distance to the lift, anyway.

Quiet as a mouse, Laera kept to the shadows as she made her way across the bridge. She could hear a few garbled voices off in the distance, and she stole over the platform with hurried steps in case they were headed her way. Looking around quickly to be certain she wasn’t discovered, the druid stepped out onto the lift and released the mechanism, allowing it to lower to the ground.

Laera breathed a sigh of relief—she’d made it. The only thing left to cope with was the guard down at the bottom of the lift, but he knew she was in a hurry anyway. She would probably have to make a show of her new white hair for a moment or two, but that was-

The druid’s heart leaped into her throat. Ducking low onto the wooden planks of the lift, she crawled to the edge to peer down at the forest floor rising to meet her. What she saw nearly made her choke. Assembled on the ground below was a mass of wood elf soldiers, all milling about at the foot of the lift. Their voices rose noisily through the air as they waited—probably a scouting party just returned from their watch in the forest, she figured.

Looking every which way, the disguised druid cast about helplessly, trying to think of what to do. As soon as she arrived at the ramp below, she would suddenly be a Teir’Dal surrounded by twenty or so wood elf soldiers. True, the same guard was probably still down there, and she could prove her identity by showing them her hands, but that would take time and hassle she couldn’t afford.

Her only route of escape was the enormous arm leading into the mechanism itself that raised and lowered the lift along the towering trunk. It would provide decent cover until the lift arrived at the ground, where she could hopefully spirit herself away into the woods without being seen.

Without a second thought, Laera ran across the lift arm, and ducked between a rolling gear and the tree trunk itself. Crouching, the druid waited for the lift’s cycle to end.

The cluttered voices grew louder the closer to the ground she came. Tilting her head, she tried to make out the words, but the conversations were a conundrum of incoherent gibberish. Soon, the mechanism lurched to a halt, having dutifully reached the loading ramp below. The gigantic gear next to Laera shuddered to a stop, and the wood elf peeked around it to find a number of the scouting party boarding the lift.

It was now or never. Scampering through the complex system of gears, wheels and cogs, Laera squirmed her way through the machine to fall silently to the ground, her nimble legs absorbing the impact. Looking cautiously toward the ramp, she found that it effectively concealed her from any prying eyes.

“Piece of cake,” she whispered, satisfied. “Who needs rogues to pull off a decent caper?”

Deciding it was best not to rest on her laurels, Laera dashed into the trees with the skill of a young girl sneaking out of her parents’ house for the night.

“Dreketh!” the druid called out in a piercing whisper. “Dreketh, it’s me. Come out and let’s go.”

No answer. Laera was certain this was where she’d left her companion, but now there was no sign of the dark elf anywhere. The leaf-covered ground revealed no footprints or any sign of a struggle, but that was little comfort to the wood elf. Fearing the worst, she began to look deeper into the mists, hoping perhaps Dreketh had become bored and wandered a short distance off.

“Where have you been?” a voice growled from behind, causing the already tense druid to jump.

Clutching her chest, Laera whirled around.

“Don’t do that!” she said, shoving angrily at the dark elf. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“You?” Dreketh asked incredulously. “Thanks to the evening stroll you took through your little treehouse city, I was almost found by a patrol… that… came…” The dark elf’s words slowed to a halt, her eyes inspecting Laera. “You look different.”

“Uh,” Laera reached up and touched her own face. “It must be the wig.”

Dreketh’s eyes narrowed as she leaned in closer.

“No, your eyes are done, and your cheeks look different,” she declared suspiciously, looking down. “And look at your shoulders! What the hell have you been doing up there? I told you the job we did would be fine!”

“It couldn’t be helped,” the wood elf sighed. “One of the makeup artists in the guild saw me, and his sense of aesthetics was offended.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” Dreketh said caustically, her arms folded.

“He was a complete nutcase,” Laera explained quickly. “I couldn’t get away until he left to get my wardrobe. Now can we get out of here before we-”

“Laera?”

The wood elf’s features froze in place, recognizing the voice that came from behind. She must have heard it speak her name a thousand times as an acolyte. Turning, Laera faced the voice’s owner with a hunted look.

“Laera! It really is you!” Rigel said, standing before her dressed head to toe in footman’s leather. “I thought I recognized the tunic, but I wasn’t sure until I heard your voice!”

Laera merely stared at her long-time friend, her expression petrified.

Rigel cleared his throat, looking her up and down.

“What’s… what’s going on, Lae?” he asked uncertainly. The druid looked for all the world like she’d just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. He jutted his chin toward Dreketh. “Who is this, and why are you running around looking like that?”

“Rigel…” Laera swallowed, wetting her suddenly dry throat. “Did… did anyone else see me?”

“Well no, I-”

“Dreketh, don’t!” Laera cried, but it was too late.

In one swift motion, the shadow knight had drawn her sword and approached the young man, her blade raised to his throat.

“Quiet!” she barked a the druid, though it was clear by her expression that the command was meant for Rigel as well. “We’ve been found out,” she said more calmly, glaring directly at this unknown wood elf before her.

“Dreketh, stop,” Laera pleaded. “This is Rigel, the one I told you-”

“I don’t care who it is,” Dreketh said menacingly. “He was with that patrol that went by here. If they weren’t such inattentive fools, I’d be decorating their blades with my innards right now.”

Rigel’s stunned features turned toward Laera, his mouth standing open silently. The druid returned the acolyte’s look with another pleading gaze of her own.

“Please, Dreketh,” she argued, placing a hand on the shadow knight’s armored shoulder. “He won’t tell anyone.”

Rigel’s gaze turned back to Dreketh, his mouth closing as he realized that this was no makeup job standing before him, as was Laera. Looking into the dark elf’s azure eyes, Rigel’s shocked appearance transformed darkly.

“Tell anyone what?” he asked calmly. “That there is a Teir’Dal spy in the forest?”

Dreketh pressed the blade harder against her captive’s throat.

“Open your mouth again, and your words will end in your own blood, woodie,” she snarled.

Heeding the shadow knight’s advice, Rigel looked once again toward Laera, his eyes questioning and suspicious.

A dozen fleeting thoughts ran through the druid’s mind as she desperately tried to come up with something to allay her companion.

“Dreketh, you can’t kill him,” she said, irresolute at first. Then the answer came to her. “If he doesn’t return to his scouting party, they’ll come looking for him. All of them, you understand?”

Seeing Dreketh’s resolve waver, Laera turned back to Rigel.

“What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be in the dorm! It’s way after curfew!”

Rigel cast the dark elf a grim look as he spoke.

“A call to arms came from Felwithe after you left, Lae. A few of the trainees were asked to volunteer to serve as scouting parties so the army could prepare. We’re ordered to kill anything we find out here in blue skin,” he spat his words at Dreketh.

“But what about-” the druid began.

“This is pointless!” Dreketh growled through clenched teeth. “We should already be halfway to Crushbone by now. Any more delay and we’re both dead.”

“You’re dead already, inkie!” Rigel snapped defiantly. “Our army will march on Neriak, and when we’re done exterminating every last one of you, the only thing left behind will be a trail of smoke above a liberated Nektulos Forest!”

Dreketh pulled back her blade to deliver a swing that would instantly decapitate the impudent young wood elf, effectively silencing him before he brought down the whole city on them. Tensing to deliver the killing blow, her arm was halted by the druid’s firm grip on her wrist.

“No!” Laera cried.

Seizing the moment, Rigel leaped back out of the shadow knight’s striking range as she struggled to fight off the druid’s interference. Blinded by rage, Dreketh raised a gauntleted fist to deliver a full backhanded cuff across her companion’s face. As soon as she saw what she was about to do, however, the dark elf seized control of herself, checking the blow.

Rigel had seen enough. Now a relatively safe distance away from his attacker, he cried out an alarm.

“Inkie in the forest! Inkie in the forest!”

Looking at Rigel with panic, Laera saw on his face a look of seething hatred for the dark elf as he clutched his own throat where the sword had left a small nick in his skin. Even during the worst of times, she had never before seen such enmity on the young man’s face. Rigel looked at Dreketh as if she were no less than Innoruuk incarnate standing before him.

“Rigel, no! She mustn’t be killed!” she cried, much to his shock.

“What are you talking about?” Rigel answered indignantly. “She’s a Teir’Dal in Greater Faydark! What are you doing protecting her, unless…” He hesitated, sudden comprehension crossing his face. “Unless… you brought her here…”

A myriad of voices emerged from behind the stunned acolyte, most of them calling for Rigel to keep shouting so they could locate him in the darkness. But the young man was too scandalized by his own words to call out a second time, his face a frozen mask of betrayal as he looked at his long-time friend.

Hearing the distant voices, Dreketh roughly grabbed hold of the druid’s arm, practically dragging her away at a hurried pace.

“Now it’s a race to Crushbone,” she muttered, leaving the catatonic acolyte behind in the distance. “You should have let me kill him!”

“He’s my friend!” Laera shouted at her companion.

“Shut your mouth and get moving,” Dreketh replied, letting go of the wood elf’s arm to give her a shove forward. Both young women broke into a sprint as the dark elf spoke. “You know as well as I do what’s at stake here. Which is more important—the Pact or your friend’s pathetic life?”

Pumping her legs hard to keep up with the shadow knight, Laera snarled to give the obvious answer when the impact of Dreketh’s question suddenly struck her. The Cup of Ages—ultimate power and rulership over all nations of Norrath. Possibly the extinction of her entire race and others. Was the life of any one person above that? Or a hundred? At one point in her life, the idealistic young acolyte within Laera would have answered “yes” without pause. But now that the day of reckoning was nearly upon them, she suddenly wasn’t so sure.

Biting her tongue, the druid redoubled her efforts to reach Clan Crushbone before her own people hunted her down and massacred them both in the name of her goddess.

Chapter 21 - The Ambassador